I tell the truth to others, but I think I lie to myself more often than not. I told myself that I wouldn't drink again. Yet, I did and now I have no one but myself to blame. Did I do it to forget for awhile? Did I want to make someone else happy? The latter seems plausible. Why do I always want to make other people happy? It brings me no practical gain. But it does make me feel like I am capable, of being a useful instrument in society. All I remember is waking up in a room, that I don't recall paying for. There was a hill-men seated in a chair leering at the hallway, then a man that looked to be of Bree-ish origin standing outside. Did I go drinking with him? It's distressing when I can't remember things.
I fear that I've scared others, that I've shown them, I am nothing more than an animal to be caught and put away. I thought that I had my turmoil under control. The memories that are meant to be nothing more but a reminder of past hurts. But one drink too many and I woke up the next morning, afraid of everyone again. So afraid that I pulled a knife. Am I fit to be a mother? No, no, do not think like that. These are only doubts and doubts are something that can be overcome. Just keep putting one foot, in front of the other, don't be a victim.
No one respects victims, victims are weak, victims cower and cry. What do I do now?
